


Flint

by gardnerhill



Series: A Study In Crimson [14]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Community: holmes_minor, Gen, International Talk Like A Pirate Day, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: Some things are harder to do one-handed than others.





	Flint

**Author's Note:**

> For September 19, 2017’s Talk Like a Pirate Day. Also fits the August and September 2017 Holmes Minor Prompts, “Hand Utensil” and “Learning Something New”

Wiggins’ voice range out on the waist of the ship. “And… go!”

Prime.

I swept my Slaney pistol from my belt and tucked it hard under my left armpit, facing forward. Right hand into the pocket, out with the little packet of powder. Tear open with the teeth, tap powder into the pan, frizzen down to hold powder in place – all moves neat and precise as my stitches.

Load.

Shift arm muscle to tilt pistol upward, tip rest of powder into barrel, paper and all. No trying for speed; haste under fire killed the gunman. Steady, like Hopkins and Angel and Small loading their own pistols with their two good hands. Out with the ramrod and tamp down powder and paper. Rod in my teeth. Pocket again for a small square of cloth, held in thumb and forefinger whilst I reached my other three fingers into the sack of lead balls around my neck to pull one out. Cloth over muzzle, bullet on cloth, push in with thumb. Ramrod again. Ramrod away, back into place.

Present.

I was a Baker. I climbed to the crow’s nest for my watch, sewed men’s wounds with my flesh right hand and sawed off their ruined limbs with my bonesaw left hand. I wrestled my boots on (Wiggins holding the bootjack steady) and fastened my own trousers. I could now swim (a closely-guarded secret still) from one end of the Baker to the other and back, my saw hand a sweeping steel oar. I would guard Captain Shear-Lock’s back with my good pistol, One-Hand Jack or no.

Pistol butt snubbed back into the heel of my hand. Muzzle over the water, toward a cloud of gulls fighting over a shark carcase.

Cock.

Thumb up to tip back the flint hammer.

Fire.

Breath. A slow squeeze.

Angel and Small’s pistols spoke one half-heartbeat ahead of mine; Hopkins’ pistol-click was drowned out by screaming gulls flying away in all directions from the cloud of feathers and blood we’d just made. We waited while Hopkins held still, still aimed at the centre of the gull-swarm, counting ten in his mind. He cocked again, aimed, breath, squeeze. Boom, and a cloud of powder-smoke, and more gull screams.

Only when all the loaded guns were fired did the cheering start. I whooped and waved my pistol in the air as the onlookers clapped me on the back. This was worth the hours of creating a sore spot in my underarm, the spilt twists and scattered bullets, the dropped pistols, the cursing, the despair. Next time, I vowed, I’d be a half-heartbeat ahead of them.

“Doctor Jack, does this mean I ain’t to load your pistol no more?” Wiggins said so plaintively that many shouted with laughter, myself included. My Slaney piece was a lovely weapon and Wiggins always enjoyed holding it and preparing it for me.

“You load your own pistol from now on, Mr. Wiggins!” I shouted exuberantly. “But you may continue to make all my powder cartridges.”


End file.
